I Was Trained For This

“Saludo!” my husband called out to the two furniture store owners on Queens Boulevard as we walked in, employing his usual greeting, assuming they were fellow Latinos. Something told me that they might not be- and even if they were, I thought it would still be a good idea to let him know that he shouldn’t always assume this.

I asked them where they were from. They smiled, laughed and said that they were from whatever country we were from.

“You’re from the Dominican Republic?” one of them asked my husband. “Ah, so are we!”

After a few more kidding jabs like that, we eventually found out that they were from Morocco. Unless they were joking about that too, though I doubt it. Just next store is another little furniture place where the owner is Puerto Rican and speaks a good amount of Spanish, though I don’t think it’s his first language. His assistant is a Peruvian and Japanese woman who is more fluent in Spanish than English. A few stores down is a T-Mobile where the Colombian-American salesperson did his pitches in Spanish to us, switching from English to Spanish with ease. Seated next to him was his Bangladeshi sales associate who said he doesn’t really speak Bengali too much. This is the kind of diversity I’ve been raised on my entire life. This is some of what my husband is baffled by with his first time here and I have to remind myself that not everyone grows up like this.

He is baffled in a positive way; it’s kind of ‘cool’ for him at this point. I understand how he feels. It strikes me as cool from time to time too when I step back and really think about it. Especially if I’m coming back from somewhere that’s more mono cultural/racial/ethnic etc. In fact, if an area wasn’t diverse, I would feel a void, as if I were being cheated out of something. In general, I like to feel as though I’m going through my day in a microcosm of the world if possible.

It reminds me of the 1999 John Rocker quote that had outraged everyone. 
He was ragging more on the class of people it seems, not so much their ethnicities here, but he wasn't a big fan of that either so I'm bringing them both up in the same vein here. Living a couple stops away from the 7, and living in a neighborhood for 5 years where the 7 was the main train I relied on, I can easily picture what he was trying to paint. I can picture an outsider like him; a hot-tempered, arrogant 6’4”, 225 pounder, trying to squeeze into the train, the one nicknamed “the sardine 7” and “International Express”. 

I’ve never followed Rocker’s career, never knew what he looked or sounded like, I even forgot his name up until now as I Googled some catchphrases like, “it’s depressing”, 7 train rant, and baseball player. Apparently there used to be a website up called rockersucks.com where people were able to spit back their disgust and outrage.

I gotta say though, sometimes riding the train is depressing. Sometimes that experience can be disorientating, scary, and the usual fear of the unknown kicks in. Sometimes it’s not even the unknown but real, concrete factors. When I was about 17, I was felt up by a fellow passenger one crowded morning. I felt his fingers ride up my skirt. I turned around and saw a tall, white guy in flannel with a wild-eyed maniacal grin, staring off into space. People get lost, robbed, beat up, stabbed, and sometimes killed in trains and stations- just like in life!  And sometimes all this beautiful diversity downright clashes- I know, I get it. . But sometimes it’s harmonious and can feel uplifting. Sometimes lives get saved, amazing acts of ‘good samaritan’ kindness occur, and jam sessions too- hundreds of them can be found on YouTube. And sometimes it feels like no big deal, something that you’re not even reflecting on because you’re already immersed in your book, iPhone, thoughts of “what’s that smell?” or hoping that the local didn’t all of a sudden decide to go express or take a completely different route altogether.

I see Rocker’s point in a very objective, disassociating way. At the same time I sense his hatred distorting and clouding up his thinking.  Also, I wasn’t surprised to learn that he was known for having anger issues, often walking out of his sensitivity training courses, was charged with taking steroids, spat on a toll booth machine in anger (dude, it’s a machine…) etc.

So far my husband is fascinated with New York’s diversity that‘s devoid of this kind of hate and aggravation. I wonder if that might change with time here. I am hoping that at worst, just the ‘novelty’ of it wears off, not that he hones hateful prejudices.

Former relief pitcher Mike Remlinger pointed out how baseball can humble you: 

"The thing is," he said, "baseball is a game of humility. You can be on top one minute, as low as possible the next. When you're young, you don't realize it. But sooner or later you learn--we all do. Be humble." - from Jeff Pearlman's Sports Illustrated article, Dec 27, 1999

I think riding the train here has the potential to do that too. It can fuel you with more and more resentment, inspire you, or trip up and whittle down your ego every now and then, causing you to “have a seat” as they say, even though seats on the train aren’t always available. In that case you'd have to grab onto something else- just don't grab up on anyone you don't know/without their consent.